


The Flatmate Effect

by paint_me_a_revolution



Category: 1789 - バスティーユの恋人たち | 1789: Les Amants de la Bastille - Toho, 1789: Les Amants de la Bastille - Various Composers/Attia & Chouquet
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, F/M, M/M, Rating just in case, max is not cool with sharing, no respect for the french revolution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-08-28 19:24:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16729269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paint_me_a_revolution/pseuds/paint_me_a_revolution
Summary: In which Ronan's new flatmates are kind of obnoxious, and he's sick of it.





	1. In Which Ronan Tries Diplomacy

      The new housing situation was going to drive Ronan mad. He’d been ecstatic to find an affordable room in a very nice, very central flat, convinced that his luck was finally starting to go up; now, having lived with Camille and Maximilien for a month and a half, Ronan could safely say that the flat was affordable because no one else wanted to live with them. If they weren’t shouting and rattling about, they were busy snogging on and against every available surface. If they weren’t doing that, they were tucked up in their separate rooms like hermits.

      _We need to discuss boundaries,_ was what Ronan sent to the group chat (the ‘flat-chat’, as Max affectionately called it). He got several question marks from Camille, and nothing from Max but the little blue checks confirming he’d read it. _Half-seven, in the dining room._

      Camille was there at quarter past, dressed in sweats and an old t-shirt and with his hair in a sloppy bun. Max arrived at quarter-to, in dark jeans and a shirt that looked like it had been pressed. “What’s the problem?” he asked immediately, not even bothering to take a seat as the others had. Ronan cleared his throat nervously.

      “I don’t…” he began, “I don’t think this is working.”

      Max looked unimpressed. “Are you saying you want to leave?”

      “No!” Ronan realised too late that he’d shouted. “No, not at all. I just think…”

      Camille snorted. “I think he’s uncomfortable with us,” he said, tapping the table lightly with his fist. Ronan nodded. Max’s expression darkened, and Camille tripped over his words in his haste to correct his mistake. “Not like that! God, I don’t think he’d…he wouldn’t have responded to the ad if he…Jesus! I think he’s got a problem with you snogging me up against the kitchen counter, you ass.”

      “I think he’s the only one,” Max said petulantly, but he finally took a seat. He pulled something out of his bag. “Orange, anyone?”

      “Absolutely not,” groaned Camille. Ronan nodded. “God, you eat so many I’m surprised you’re not one giant citrus fruit by now.”

      “They’re healthy.”

      “So is green veg, and I don’t see you eating much of that.”

      Ronan cleared his throat. “Can we get back to the point?” he asked, eager to stop them bickering like a married couple. “You both have rooms. Why can’t you, ah, use them?”

      “We do!” Max argued. Camille put a hand over his.

      “We’re not used to sharing,” the taller man explained. He was the reasonable one, as Ronan had learned very quickly upon moving in. Max, while small in stature and unfortunately sickly for a man his age, was the one to charge head-on into a fight. Were this the 1700s instead of the 2010s, Camille would probably be his duelling second, pleading with him not to fire his gun. “We’ll try to behave in a more… _appropriate_ manner.”

      Ronan nodded. “Great,” he said. “That was all I wanted to say. Shall I make us some supper?”

      “That would be fantastic,” Camille agreed eagerly. Max was more reluctant, but gave in after a few nudges and imploring looks. “I’m—“

      “Vegetarian, I know,” Ronan said. “And Max won’t eat half the shit in this kitchen, the bastard. You’ll do eggs though, right?”

      “He loves eggs,” Camille said, probably before Max could open his mouth and say something either rude or stupid. Ronan nodded, already busy with cutting something up on their rather worn countertop. Max clicked his tongue disapprovingly and sat back. _Looks like I’ve won this round,_ Ronan thought. He turned to the cupboards, appraising them.

      “Will you eat pasta, Max? Or is that too fancy?”

      “Fuck off, Mazurier.”

      As it turned out, Max would _not_ eat pasta. Camille finished both of their portions and went back for thirds. Ronan just rolled his eyes, resigned.


	2. In Which Ronan Tries Confrontation

      Ronan was used to coming home to chaos. What he _wasn't_ used to was coming home to find a stranger going through his fridge. He froze, staring at the mop of black curls barely peeking out from behind the fridge door, and said, “Who the hell are you?”

      The guy jumped. “Holy shit!” he cried out. His voice was a smooth bass that Ronan imagined would be pleasant under literally _any_ other circumstance. “Jesus, man, you scared me!”

      Ronan crossed his arms. The man bowed his curly head. The fridge beeped. “This is my house,” Ronan said after a long, uncomfortable pause. “How did you get in here?”

      “Camille let me in,” the man said. The fridge beeped again, and he finally closed it. “I’m Georges-Jaques Danton. You may have heard of me?”

      “I haven’t,” Ronan snapped. “Is Camille in? His coat wasn’t on the rack.”

      “He’s running a few errands, I think.” Danton didn’t seem too bothered by the interrogation. “I was just getting some juice for Max. He’s in a right mood.”

      Ronan nodded, unsurprised. Max had been fighting with his department for the better part of a week now, which had left him sullen and snappy. He couldn’t imagine Max was any more thrilled with the unexpected company than he was. But… “That doesn’t explain why you’re wandering around,” Ronan pointed out. “Rummaging through our fridge and the like.”

      “Oi! What’s taking you so fucking long?” Max shouted, his voice carrying across the flat like a gunshot.

      “He got held up!” Ronan called back, and laughed as he listened to the sound of Max’s chair hitting the wall. The other man rounded the corner in a flurry of bouncing curls and waving arms, already shouting.

      “Are you harassing my fucking flatmate, Danton?” Max demanded. He gestured first at Ronan, and then pointed an accusing finger at Danton.

      “He’s harassing me!” Danton protested, holding up his hands in surrender.

      “I wasn’t,” Ronan said, “but I wanted to know why some random stranger was going through our fridge. So sue me!”

      “You’re both fucking idiots,” Max snapped. He pulled open the fridge door a little too hard, making the contents of the shelves rattle, and grabbed the half-empty carton of orange juice. He didn’t even bother pouring it out, just uncapped it and tipped its contents directly into his mouth. “Danton, come on. We’ve got work to do.”

      “Are you gonna…?” Ronan gestured at the juice. Max rolled his eyes and hugged the carton to his chest, grabbing Danton’s wrist with his other hand. “Oh, nope. Okay.” He started to say more as they marched past, only to be interrupted by the sound of a door slamming shut.

      When Camille got back, Ronan texted, _we need to talk again._ Camille sent back several question marks, as was typical, but several minutes later there was a soft knock on Ronan’s door. “Come in,” he called. The door opened just a little, and Camille poked his head through the gap.

      “What’s wrong?” he asked, worrying at his bottom lip. “I got your text. I, uh…I’m not sure what’s going on.”

      Ronan sighed. “It’s not a big deal,” he said, swivelling his chair around to face the door properly. “You can come in, if you’d like.”

      Camille hesitated for a moment before ducking in and closing the door behind him. “Is this about Max?” he asked worriedly. “I’m so sorry, he gets like this when there’s a crisis. He told me about the shouting, and—“

      “It’s not about Max,” Ronan said. “It’s about Danton.”

      Camille seemed to deflate. “Oh,” he said.

      “It’s not that I don’t like company,” Ronan continued, rocking his chair side to side as he spoke. “It’s just, I don’t appreciate coming home to find strange men going through my fridge.”

      “ _Oh.”_ Camille hung his head bashfully. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think…I…Sorry.”

      “It’s—“ _Fine?_ No, it wasn’t. But Camille looked so upset already, and Ronan felt his stomach twist at the idea of badgering him more. “Just let me know next time, okay? I had the fright of my life.”


	3. In Which Ronan Gets Angry

     “You…know each other?”

     Ronan looked between Danton and Solene, stomach churning. “She’s my sister,” he said. His voice cracked. Solene wouldn’t look at him. She’d grown up a bit since the last time he saw her; her face was thinner, her hair longer, and she was almost as tall as Ronan. “Solene, did he really mean it? Are you…?”

     “I…” Solene still wouldn’t look at him. “Ronan…”

     Ronan felt the world tilt a little. He was overreacting. He _knew_ he was overreacting. And yet the thought of Danton…of someone he knew _paying_ his little sister to fuck him made his stomach turn. “Get out!” he shouted at Danton. He took a step forward; Solene rushed between them.

     “Give us a moment,” she begged Danton. There was something in her eyes when she looked at him, almost like…no. It couldn’t be. “Please.”

     He didn’t kiss her when he left. Good. Ronan didn’t think he could bear to see it. The door slammed shut, but neither of the siblings spoke. A minute turned into two, and then three. Ronan licked his lips nervously. He saw Solene do the same. She still wouldn’t look at him. “I think I’m gonna be sick,” Ronan mumbled. He staggered for the door. Solene caught his wrist.

     “Wait! Let’s talk, at least. Please.” She bit her lip and finally, nervously, brought her eyes up to meet his. “It’s been three years, Ronan.”

     Reluctantly, Ronan nodded. He let her lead him to his own couch, and stared numbly at her as she sat as far to the other side as possible. “Ronan,” she started. Her voice cracked.

     “Is it true?” he asked, barely trusting his own voice. “What Danton said, is it true?”

     He heard Solene take a deep breath. “It’s true,” she said, “but it’s not at all what you think, Ronan, I—“

     “He…he said he _pays_ you,” Ronan shouted angrily. “What else could that mean?”

     “He pays for my education,” Solene said softly. “And I sleep with him. But…Ronan, he’s a good man. He’s kind, and he’s gentle, and he’d never…I…” She let out a strangled sob. “I care about him.”

     Ronan snorted derisively. “He’s paying you to…to…”

     “He’s doing so much more.” Solene reached for Ronan’s hand, and it took everything in his power not to pull away. “He’s so good, Ronan.”

     Ronan’s stomach turned again. Solene was looking into her lap again; with a sinking feeling, Ronan realised it was because she was scared of him. His own sister, too afraid to meet his eyes. “I need a drink,” he muttered, standing up. “No, don’t,” he added as Solene started to follow him. He double-checked for his wallet on the way out the door. He _really_ needed that drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one, because I've been super ill and stressed this week. I promise the next one will be longer! 
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoy, and let me know if there's anything you want to see next!


	4. In Which Max Has No Manners

     Max usually wasn’t one for small talk, and that wasn’t about to change because his idiot flatmate had brought his date over. “You know, there are better places to bring a girl,” he pointed out. “At least, if you’re trying to impress her.”

     Ronan turned bright red. The girl next to him—pretty, even by Max’s judgement—laughed, a sound like someone smacking a wind-chime. “We’re just stopping by,” he said. “I needed to pick up some stuff.”

     Max raised an eyebrow. “Will you be out the night, then?” he asked. He could practically feel Ronan’s discomfort. How delightful. “Well, it doesn’t matter.” Snatching an orange from the bowl on the kitchen counter, Max made a hasty retreat to his bedroom. God forbid the girl do something like introduce herself. Then Max would have no choice but to make pleasantries until someone came and rescued him or he made an ass of himself.

     “I don’t think he liked me,” Max heard Ronan’s friend mutter just before his door slammed shut. _Hah._ Not like he cared what she thought. He’d never see her again.

     His phone rattled. Desmoulins had texted _what’s up?_ Alongside it was an obnoxiously grinning emoji.

      _Ronan brought a girl home._

      _No way!_ There was a long stretch where Max watched the grey typing indicator bounce. _Are you hiding in your room?_

      _Not hiding. Working._

     When his door opened an hour later, Max was expecting Camille. He was _not_ expecting a very sheepish looking Ronan, who stood behind the threshold nervously. “Max?” he asked tentatively, like he wasn’t already invading Max’s personal space just by opening the door.

     “What?”

     “Is it okay if Olympe stays for dinner?” Ronan asked. “We went back to hers, but her power went out.”

      _Oh, for the love of god._ “It’s fine,” Max said, shrugging. He swivelled his chair a bit. “So long as I’m not cooking.”

     Ronan looked personally offended. “ _I’m_ cooking,” he said. “I don’t know what you’d feed her, but I’m only fifty percent sure it’d be edible.”

     Max rolled his eyes and snorted. “Tell Camille I’m busy,” he said as the door swung shut. He wasn’t sure Ronan had heard him.

     Dinner was a painfully awkward affair, and it wasn’t just because of Ronan’s despicable table manners. Olympe—God bless her—seemed to find his lack of decorum endearing; Max stared helplessly across the table at Camille as she showed him how to tilt his bowl to get the last spoonsful of his soup. Camille shrugged. Max focused back on his meal. It was tomato soup and baguette; he reminded himself to thank Ronan for making something he could eat without causing a fuss, and then decided against it as Olympe giggled prettily and kissed Ronan on the lips. And Ronan had the nerve to complain about him and Camille! But Max could practically hear Camille’s silent pleading, so he said nothing. He prayed they’d finish soon. He couldn’t take much more of this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying a new perspective. Let me know what you think!


	5. In Which Camille is Trying

     Camille had left the kitchen a mess again. Ronan knew it couldn’t have been Max, because in the four and a half months that he’d been living with the two, Max hadn’t prepared anything for himself that wasn’t either from the fruit basket or his cupboard. Camille on the other hand, was an avid baker; he baked enough cookies every weekend to feed a small army, and distributed them amongst the neighbours like the utter angel he was. He also, apparently, liked making soup and leaving the mess for other people to clean up.

     “What the fuck is this?” Ronan demanded when his flatmate came home from work. Camille froze halfway through untying his shoes and grimaced sheepishly.

     “Maxime’s had a bad day at the office,” he explained, cheeks red. “I thought I’d surprise him when he came home.”

     “By leaving a mess in the kitchen?”

     “I was going to clean it up before anyone else got in!” Camille protested. “You just…beat me to it, I guess.” He stepped out of his shoes and toward the kitchen in a faltering half-stagger, sliding and almost tripping in his socked feet. Ronan was reminded a little of a fawn trying to walk on ice, and his laughter almost distracted him from the problem at hand. _Almost._

     “What were you even making?” Ronan asked, picking up a pan by the handle and dropping it back into the sink. The resulting clatter made his ears ache. He poked a pot. “I want to guess…soup?”

     “Yeah.”

     “I didn’t know you could cook.”

     “I can make soup!” Camille protested. “Stress is really hard on Max’s body. I wanted to make sure dinner was something he’ll eat.”

     Ronan clicked his tongue. “He eats my food!”

     “Only sometimes.”

     An hour later, Ronan was roused from a nap by the sound of the front door practically rattling on its hinges. He heard Camille call out, and Max’s unintelligible shouting a moment later, and jammed a pillow over his head to block out the noise. He only uncovered himself when Camille knocked on the door to tell him dinner was ready.

     “We’re not eating soup, are we?” Max complained. He was already seated at the table, eying the pot warily.

     “We are,” Camille confirmed. “Tomato, your favourite.” He ladled the thick, orange concoction into a bowl and placed it gently on Max’s placemat. Max reluctantly shoved a spoon into it. He only managed a bite before putting his spoon down. Orange seeped between the gaps in the placemat.

     “That’s disgusting,” he snapped. “I don’t know how you expect me to eat it.”

     “Don’t be a brat,” Ronan shot back. He took a mouthful of the soup, which was admittedly under-seasoned and overly sweet, and said, “Camille worked hard to make you something you’d like.”

     “He did a piss-poor job.” Max’s chair flew back as he stood up with such force that the table shook a bit. “I’ll be in my room.”

     “Let him go,” Camille sighed as Ronan got up to pursue his flatmate. “I told you, he doesn’t do stress very well.”

     “That’s no excuse to treat you like that,” Ronan insisted. Camille shrugged.

     “He’ll get over it.”

     “He’d better.” Ronan sat back down and forced himself to swallow another spoonful of the soup. _God,_ he thought, _it really is awful, isn’t it?_ Across the table, Camille beamed, and that was kind of worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know why I wrote this, but I'm gonna keep going because I have no self-control. 
> 
> Come say hi on tumblr! @lehetsz-kiraly


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